


Crowley's Bad Day

by teaDragon



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, shamelessly indulgent fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 15:14:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19253764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaDragon/pseuds/teaDragon
Summary: Crowley is having a Bad Day, and nothing he tries seems to make it any better. Too bad there isn't anyone to cheer him up...





	Crowley's Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> This is fluff, ok? Utterly indulgent fluff. 
> 
> Originally posted on [my tumblr](https://ethereal-menace.tumblr.com/post/172592847986/crowleys-bad-day)

Crowley was having a bad day.

He’d woken up at some blessed indecent hour of the morning to what sounded like a piano being dragged across the hallway. Poking his head out of his flat proved he was entirely correct. Someone on his floor was moving and had decided, for some damned* reason, to leave the actual moving until a few short hours before the new tenants moved in at noon.

*Literally damned.

To be fair, it had seemed like a perfectly devious suggestion to make at the time. They had hardly needed any convincing either. Trouble was, while he’d normally relish in the easy chaos of moving and all the little things that could so easily go oh so wrong, he had forgotten to account for the noise and wretched inconvenience it would bring on _himself_.

Something he was regretting right about now.

Crowley hated being up any earlier than eleven in the morning, and right now it was barely past six. Any satisfaction he derived from waving a hand and jamming the elevator halfway down to the lobby was completely overshadowed by all the noise and commotion _that_ made. He’d given up on sleep after a half hour in exasperation, and grumbled his way through a quick breakfast of frozen pizza and blackest coffee in front of his shiny widescreen.

Except even that hadn’t helped. His favourite reality TV show had been taken down from Netflix. As a demon he could convince whatever he bloody well pleased to show up on the screen—but it just wasn’t the same! Feeling moody and nostalgic, he had flipped channels, looking for some Golden Girls or cartoon re-runs to cheer him up. When he’d landed on some week-long special on the Fourteenth Century he’d flipped the blessed thing off, hissing under his breath.

Even his plants were being disrespectful! He could hear them laughing at him behind his back in their leafy little voices, all snide and smug and not at all terrified as they should be.

Stalking out of his flat, he’d had to dodge around the slew of harried movers and locals gathered around the jammed elevators and headed for the equally crowded stairwell. He’d barely managed to squeeze his way past two men perilously carrying a sofa and escaped out into the lobby. Just in time for the doors to open and a pack of firefighters to rush in, looking for the trouble.

With a sigh Crowley sent an exasperated gesture at the elevators. They un-jammed, and down they came, the doors opening with a cheerful _ding_ and spitting out his harassed ex-neighbours and the piano.

Everyone cheered and helped them get out of the compartment.

Crowley stared. Well that had backfired.

So Crowley did what he did best and buggered off to Aziraphale’s.

Xxx

“Terribly sorry,” came the angel’s muffled voice as Crowley sauntered into the shop. “We’re in the middle of re-shelving, kindly go away.”

“Re-shelving again, angel?” Crowley peered around a bookshelf, searching for the owner of the voice. Aziraphale was sat on the floor, barely visible behind a huge pile of dusty books. “Didn’t you do one just last month?”

“Two months ago. And hullo dear.” He slid his gold-rimmed glasses further up his nose with a knuckle, not taking his gaze away from the shelves. “I thought I’d locked the door.”

Crowley snorted. “Oh please.” He leaned casually against the bookshelf, arms and legs neatly crossed. “It knows better then to keep me out.” He smirked and waggled his eyebrows. It was completely lost on Aziraphale who still hadn’t looked up. Crowley frowned. “You almost sound like you don’t want me here.” He sniffed, pretending* to be hurt at the idea.

*He was.

“Actually, I’m afraid that’s about it.”

Crowley blinked, sunglasses slipping perilously down his nose. “Wait, what?”

The angel huffed. “There’s something—something _wrong_ with the books, or the shop, something’s just off—and I need to concentrate so I can sort it out and fix it.”

“Off? Off how?”

Aziraphale made a high distressed sound.

“Did you misplace your favourite Wilde again?”

He did turn and look at him then, properly aghast. “I would never!”

Crowley grinned. “You did.” 

“Did not!”

“Oh yeah? What about that time in the 50’s when you had the—"

“Just _shhh!_ ” He flapped an agitated hand in his direction, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re distracting me!” Aziraphale rubbed a hand over his face, smearing a line of dust across his forehead. “Look, my dear. I’m really not up to your sort of distraction today. As pleasant as it may be. I need to sort this, so, terribly sorry, but please, if you wouldn’t mind…”

Crowley sniffed, drawing himself up impressively and pushed his sunglasses back into place. It was once again, entirely lost on Aziraphale. “Well. So sorry to have bothered you, _angel_.”

“Don’t mention it, dear.”

The door snapped shut behind him, locking itself primly.

“Who needs you anyway,” grumbled Crowley. He slid dejectedly into the Bentley. “I can have a good time all on my own."

_‘I dooooon’t want my freeeedooom!’_ screamed out from the stereo as he started up the ignition.

“Oh come on!” Crowley scrambled to change the song.

_‘There’s no reaaaaaason for liiiiiiving!_

_With a broken heart…’_

“Next! Next! Skip it already!” But the Bentley would not and Freddie continued to sing. 

_‘This is a tricky situation_

_I’ve only got myself to blame_

_It’s just a simple fact of life,_

_It can happen to anyone.’_

“Oh, for badness’ sakes!”

_‘You win, you loose_

_It’s a chance you have to take with love_

_Oh yeah, I fell in love_

_And now you say it’s over_

_And I’m falling apaaaaart!’_

“Et tu, Freddie?” muttered Crowley, resigning himself to his fate. He pulled back onto the street and away from the bloody bookshop, pointedly not watching it fade away in the rear-view mirror.

Which is why he nearly swerved into the car stopped in front of him when he turned into a _massive_ traffic jam. There was some kind of construction going on, and an accident, and while generally these were things he should enjoy as a demon, he hadn’t had anything to do with them. Crowley wasn’t in the _mood_ for traffic. Yet here it was, just in time for the morning rush hour.

_‘I try and mend the broken pieces_

_(Oooohh oooh)_

_I try to fight back the tears’_

Crowley sat quietly fuming, fingers tapping agitatedly along the wheel. They were barely moving. And here he was stuck with Freddie Mercury getting a little too personal, once again.

_‘They say it’s just a state of mind_

_But it happens to everyone_

_How it hurts (yeah)_

_Deep inside (oooh yeah)_

_When your love has cut you down to size_

_This life is tough, on your own_

_And now I’m waiting for something_

_To fall from the sky_

_I’m waiting for loooooove’_

“It’s a haaaaard life!” sang Crowley, blessing it all to heaven. “To be two lovers together! To love and live forever in each other’s hearts!”

People in the other cars were giving him strange looks but he was too far-gone to care.

“It’s a long haaaaard fight!” he yelled, throwing his head back. “To learn to care for each other! To trust in one another right from the start! When you’re in lo—oh _bless_ it all!”

When he finally freed himself from the jam it struck him that he didn’t know where he was going. If he went back to his flat they’d still be moving, and likely would be all blasted daylong. His next thought was St. James Park but there was an angel-sized hole in that plan.

Crowley parked his car (illegally) on the side of the road and got out. He pointedly didn’t walk by or even look in the direction of the park.

He spent a few unsatisfying hours loitering around no loitering signs, making the lights in lettered signs burn out in ways that spelt funny words, and cutting in front of people on crowded sidewalks only to slow down and block them from passing.

Then he ended up in St. James Park.

A family with a large gaggle of children were sitting on a bench. It was the same bench he and Aziraphale usually sat at. 

It was _their_ bench.

He glared at the family for a few long moments in silent indignation, debating with scaring them away. But it wasn’t like he had any reason to sit there. Not today. Not on his own. With a sigh he reasoned the large two-seater pram was blocking the pavement and causing sufficient damage where it was. 

Leaving them be, he walked further into the park, grumbling mulishly into the collar of his coat. He kicked a trashcan in a fit of general indignation. It was one of those heavy wrought-iron jobs that didn’t so much as wobble at the assault but made a terrifically loud and metallic _clang_ , echoing all through the park and giving him a badly stubbed toe. He blessed violently, aware that he’d drawn the attention of everyone within sight.

“Oh, poor dearie.” 

He whipped his head around. There was a little old lady squinting up at him.

“Did you hurt your toesie woesies?” she asked in a sickeningly sweet voice.

He stared at her wide-eyed, toesies throbbing. “I—nuh—“

“There, there. Have a biscuit.” An old packet of tea biscuits was shoved into his hands. The lady hummed to herself and walked by, leaving a stunned and embarrassed demon in her wake.

Shaking himself, Crowley ducked his face into his collar and stalked over to the fence by the pond, draping himself over it woefully. His toesies stung painfully. He huffed, glaring down at the rippling water. “No respect for the occult these days,” he grumbled.

A series of splashes altered him to a group of ducks swimming towards him across the water. 

“Yeah, yeah. Here.” He crumbled up the biscuits and scattered them, watching the ducks chase after the pieces. 

One of was looking up at him. 

He looked back. 

It squawked.

“What?”

The duck stared at Crowley and then to the empty spot beside him. It looked back to him pointedly. 

“No, no he’s not here. Too busy with his bloody books.”

The duck honked and fluffed its feathers, giving him a look that was almost accusatory.

“Don’t give me that face! Wasn’t my idea…”

The ducks waddled off, going over to more interesting people along the banks of the pond. 

“Ngh. Me too.”

Xxx

The rest of the day wasn’t much better, and Crowley’s mood continued to drop, making him sullen and moodily introspective.

It was dark now, and right about the time when Crowley usually wanted a bit of something to eat. He didn’t feel up to much. It would likely be cold old pizza in his lonely old flat. 

He sent the Bentley back to his building and decided to walk. 

What was better then brooding in the dark? Nights were _made_ for that. Especially if you were a demon. You’d stalk the streets in sordid discontent, spreading your mood about like a storm cloud and infecting everyone you passed. Demons were all about that. Oh yeah, this was _peak_ demonic activity.

He sighed and plodded along.

The streets passed by, a blur of flashy shop fronts and headlights and noise. There were people—always people—in tight clusters, in groups, in pairs, or alone, all with somewhere to go.

It started to rain. Lightly at first and then in great heavy sheets, battering the sidewalks in waves. Crowley had always liked rain. It was cool and refreshing and made everything feel more alive somehow. It was utterly native to earth. There was nothing like it anywhere else, not in Heaven, nor in Hell, and he would know.

Tonight it just made him feel cold.

And there was the blessed bookshop. His treacherous feet had carried him there without even bothering to consult him. Force of habit no doubt. He wouldn’t even look in at the windows. Not that anyone could see much through the clouded glass and dust lying thick along the panes. Wouldn’t do to disturb the angel. Maybe he’d be more hospitable tomorrow?

“Crowley?”

Maybe not. Crowley had known Aziraphale to fixate on a project for days at a time—weeks even, completely oblivious to anything else. Unlike Crowley.  
Little got past this demon.

“Crowley!”

It was probably built in, he mused. Aziraphale was a Principality these days, but he’d been a Cherub. He’d been a Guardian. Sedentary traits were a must if you had to stand around all day. Couldn’t be getting itchy feet and wandering away from your charge. The Earth was Azirpahale’s charge now, and out of all of it he’d picked his dusty old shop to stand guard in. Perhaps he saw it as a microcosm of humanity? All those memories and words and ideas tucked safely away between musty pages. The humans who wrote them were gone, but here, here was an echo, some proof that they’d been here, had _lived_ and thought and been _people_. 

Someone only knew you couldn’t hold on to bugger all on Earth. Everything went and changed and died and _forgot_ , and there you were desperately trying to hold onto something, anything, chasing after the one constant you had, the only person who _understood_ —

“Crowley!”

A warm hand caught him about the shoulder and half turned him around. He blinked, coming back to himself.

“There you are! My dear, you’re soaked.”

Speak of the devil. Er.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale wasn’t wearing his coat. He had on a thick woolen jumper and old corduroys, both beginning to darken with the rain. There were flecks on his glasses. He must have just darted outside. Crowley stared at him dumbly.

The angel looked him over and clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “This won’t do at all. Come on.” 

Aziraphale linked his arm through Crowley’s and tugged him back the way he’d come. Crowley let himself be led, the hopeful flutter in his chest squashed by the heavy mood he’d had all day weighing him down. 

“Thought you were busy?”

“Oh, that. Yes well, I think I’ve got it sorted.”

“Yeah?”

The bell above the door chimed merrily as he was ushered inside, the comforting smell of old books and wooden paneling rushing up to meet him. He relaxed into it despite himself.

“I saw you walking past and thought, ‘now what’s a nice demon like that doing outside on a night like this?’” Aziraphale tugged off Crowley’s coat and hung it up. 

“Ngk.” Crowley sniffed. “Wait, nice? M’ not nice.”

“Of course not, dear,” he soothed, patting him on the arm. “But it just seemed wrong somehow, seeing you out there, so I thought you’d better come in.”

“Didn’t even ask…” he muttered, staring down sulkily at the creaky floorboards.

Aziraphale stopped. “Crowley…” 

A warm hand gently cupped his cheek, turning his face upward. Reluctantly, Crowley met his gaze.

Aziraphale was often lost in his own head. It made him oblivious and unintentionally callous at times. But when you had his attention, when he really decided to look at you, very little escaped him.

It wasn’t just that he looked, but that he _saw_ —all of that ancient patience and curious intelligence piercing right through your shields and seeing what was hiding behind them.

He often suspected that had been the case right at the Beginning. Before he’d even been Crowley, back when he was just a serpent with an ill-fitting name. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate had looked at him, really _looked_ at him, saw past the cocky attitude and snide remarks and saw—someone trying desperately not to be stepped on. 

Someone trying desperately to make a friend.

“Oh, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “I am sorry. You should have said.”

Crowley shifted uncomfortably, dropping his gaze.

“Wait just a moment.”

Aziraphale came back with an old patchy quilt and promptly draped it around the demon’s shoulders. Crowley shivered, letting the warmth envelop him.

“There now.” The angel tugged the blanket closed, bundling Crowley up in it. Leaning in, he pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. Warmth instantly rushed through him, tingling all through his limbs and thoroughly banishing the cold and wet. Dazed as he always was at such affection, Crowley slowly opened his eyes, unsure of when they’d closed. Aziraphale was watching him carefully, eyes warm and kind, _familiar_ in a way that nothing else ever could be.

“That’s better.” 

Crowley wordlessly buried a hand in the angel’s scratchy jumper, the heavy feeling starting to lift at last.

“Now, come sit and tell me about your day.”

Xxx

In short order Crowley found himself curled up on the old squashy couch in the backroom, hands wrapped around a mug of hot coca topped generously with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. Aziraphale sat next to him in an armchair pulled so close their knees were nearly touching.

It felt like home.

“So what was wrong?” asked Crowley eventually.

“Sorry?”

“With the books? The shop. Whatever it was.” He took another sip of his cocoa. It had been refilling itself for the last half hour, a stern glance from Aziraphale insuring it stayed hot and creamy and just a bit spicy, exactly how Crowley like it.

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked down at his mug, smiling ruefully. “Nothing really. Just being silly.”

Crowley made a disproving sound and nudged him with his foot.

Aziraphale sighed into his mug. “Something was missing. Something that should have been here but _wasn’t_. Took me the better part of the day of sorting through everything and digging through the catalogue to realize I—“ He coughed and shifted uncomfortably. Crowley realized he was embarrassed.

“What?”

The angel slowly met his eyes. “It wasn’t a book I was missing.”

Crowley frowned. “Manuscript?” 

Aziraphale huffed, a smile tugging at his lips. “No, my dear. Something much more important.”

Crowley thought about it. “One of the scrolls, then. The ones you keep in the back.” Some of those were thousands of years old. There were even a few the angel had nicked from Heaven’s own library, stashed away in his personal collection. It always made Crowley feel very proud of his angel to think of them here. 

_“No.”_

“Then what?”

Aziraphale’s socked foot nudged him back meaningfully.

He stared.

“You mean—“ Crowley broke off, a blush spreading across his face. 

The angel smiled kindly. “Yes, my dear. I—er. I’ve been a bit of an old silly. Something was lacking and I immediately thought of my collection. Think I was just lonely.” He chuckled, thick fingers worrying the handle of his mug. “You even stopped by and it _still_ didn’t hit me.”

“You daft old angel,” laughed Crowley, the last of his bad mood lifting.

Aziraphale sighed. “’Fraid so. I hate to say it, but you haven’t done very well for yourself. There’s plenty of angels out there much quicker on the uptake.”

Crowley scoffed. “Oh bugger them. I like _mine_ the way he is, sleeveless jumpers and all.”

Aziraphale blushed, hiding his pleased smile behind his mug. Then his expression changed and he looked up. “What’s wrong with my jumpers?”

He coughed. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

There was a roll of thunder and lightning flashed across the room. Aziraphale twisted in his seat, peering out the window. 

“It’s pouring out there. It really would be terribly rude of me to send you home in that. I have to insist you stay the night."

Crowley grinned. “I’ll never pass on a chance to inconvenience you, angel.”

“Good.” The lines around the Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Aziraphale got up and stretched lazily, his jumper riding up and showing off a glimpse of his bracers and shirt underneath. He moved around to the back of the couch, Crowley twisting in his seat to keep him in sight.

“Where’re you going?”

“Just here.”

Aziraphale lent down and enfolded him in a hug, warm wool and warmer angel descending around him on all sides. Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut, leaning back into the embrace, the breath gently leaving him as he relaxed in the warm circle of his angel’s plush arms. Soft curls tickled his cheek. A kiss was pressed to his temple and then another in quick succession, the arms around him squeezing, holding him closer.

Crowley made a small needy sound, basking in it. 

“ _Angel_ ,” he breathed, the word a prayer on his tongue.

“My dear. My _Crowley_ ,” whispered Aziraphale, impossibly fond, so much love pouring off of him Crowley felt he might drown in it. It was an onslaught, a _massacre_ , no survivors, no prisoners, complete annihilation. It was enough to make even a cold-blooded demon feel cherished and _loved_ , from his damnéd heart right down to his scaly little toes. Aziraphale nuzzled into him, giving him a little squeeze and pressing one more firm kiss, this time on the top of his head, before drawing away, bustling over to the kitchenette. 

Crowley’s eyes opened slowly, dazed, half drunk on it.

“Have you had dinner yet?” Aziraphale called over his shoulder. “I was thinking we could order in, maybe that lovely Thai place we went to last time—you remember that, last Tuesday wasn’t it? Ohh, they have that scrumptious purple rice!—and I’ve a wine I’ve been meaning to have that might go well with it, what do you say? Think I’ve a menu lying around somewhere, just a tick—oh! And here’s one for that new sushi take-out place if you’d like to order from there instead—you know I’d never say no to sushi! Thought we might watch something, your choice, dear—just please none of that dreadful reality business, though I must say you’ve really outdone yourself on that…”

Crowley smiled and let the familiar chatter wash over him, warm and content, and watched the rain lash against the window outside.


End file.
